


_Dogtown

by glenarvon



Series: _Brilliancy [3]
Category: Watch Dogs (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence, Prequel, Social engineering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glenarvon/pseuds/glenarvon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chicago, in the summer of 1993...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this mini-arc solely for myself, it's almost a vanity thing, really. I enjoy writing it, but I have no idea whether it's interesting or entertaining to anyone else. It's also heading some dark places in the upcoming installments. It's currently planned to be in four parts.

[this takes place in summer 1993]

* * *

The woman walked with an energetic, feathering stride, an athlete's body dressed in a pale business suit, its masculine cut offset by her high heels and perfectly painted face. Large sunglasses hid her eyes and the direction of her gaze. She was not the kind of woman who often walked into the Dogtown Café & Diner on the eastern end of the Wards. But then, she was not the kind of woman who didn't go exactly where she wanted.

Late afternoon in the Dogtown was a busy time, shift workers to and from work stopped by to grab a bite to eat, gang-bangers of all kinds hung around outside, but the Dogtown was mostly neutral territory, insurance all paid up.

The gang-bangers outside had given the woman a wide berth and while her expensive rental was diligently eyed up, no one went to try anything.

The Dogtown was too packed inside, not enough room to give her the same courtesy, but she had no trouble finding her way to the counter. She leaned in under the side-glancing scrutiny of the patrons nearest her.

"I'm looking for someone called Danny Boy," she said after a moment, when Mal, the Dogtown's owner, had sidled over to her and gave her a vaguely worried look. No doubt, he had seen enough trouble walk through his door to recognise it and _no doubt_ he had long since made his peace with it.

"Haven't heard that name in a while," he said carefully. The thoughts chased each other across his face, obvious and very clear: he wanted to lie about it, but didn't think he'd get away with it.

The woman waited, poised patience in the blue-collar pressure of the people around her. Even the summer heat failed to leave even a trace of sweat on her immaculate suit.

Mal twisted the dishtowel in his hands, his gaze darting ahead of them before he pointed in a gesture he tried to abort halfway through.

"Table in the corner. The one with the books."

The woman nodded, gave him a cool smile. "Thank you," she said and left the counter.

"Uhm," Mal said, cleared his throat when she stopped without turning back. "Don't call him that? He doesn't like it."

The woman made no answer, but found her way through the crowd with practiced ease, a shark cutting through water, the path closed behind her, covering her tracks perfectly.

The table Mal had pointed her to was slightly overcrowded with five young men. They seemed to be finished with their dinner — stakes of plates and cups, some remnant French fries being used as projectiles in some minor conflict. As the woman came to a halt by the table, all of it stopped. She studied them through the shielding dark of her sunglasses, one after the other as they worked out how to react to her presence. She had to give them credit, though, only one was dumb enough to whistle, the others restricted themselves to some version of a dirty grin.

_The one with the books_ hadn't been paying attention to the others. In fact, just passing by one might even have assumed he was some college student, lost in the Wards, cornered and bullied by a bunch of gang-bangers. But then, just a pile of books didn't make a student and he seemed too relaxed to be the designated victim. He'd lifted one leg up and wedged his shin against the table, balanced a cup of coffee on top of his knee.

A book was open in front of him, a pile of others towered at his side. She glanced over their back-covers for a curious collection of science fiction novels and psychology textbooks.

While his friends studied her openly, he took a moment longer, turned first his head toward her and let his gaze trail behind, away from the book as if reluctant to leave it behind and turn his attention to less important matters.

"I'm looking for Danny Boy."

The others jeered a little, laughed. The one with the books frowned and said, "Aiden," in a low-voiced tone that contained, somewhere hidden in its cadences, a distinct warning. _This better be the only time._

"Wow, Aiden," one of the others said, grinning. "Hot chick looking for you, if Leslie hears that, she'll ditch you again."

He didn't look away from her when his friends laughed, held on to a studied casualness, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "That's the funny part, because you wouldn't get to score even if there wasn't any competition."

"Shit, man, you know Leslie can do better than you any day of the week, right?" the other huffed.

"Probably does, too," a third offered and earned himself a round of laughter.

Before their banter took on a life of its own, though educational as it might have been, the woman cut in, smokey voice silencing them with careful precision, keeping her gaze resting on Aiden. "Can we talk in private?" she asked.

He made a show of thinking about it, stretching the time like chewing gum, testing her and her intentions, buying himself time to assess her, prepare some kind of strategy for the conversation to follow.

She decided to throw him a line, took off her sunglasses, met his gaze without blinking for what felt like a long time. Eventually, he looked his friends over and said, "Okay, guys, give us some space."

Without argument or hesitation, the young men filed out of the booth and chatted their way through the diner, making their way carelessly as they went. She watched them go with mild disinterest before she slipped into the seat opposite him.

He let the book fall closed, pushed it aside a little, set the cup on the table and took his knee down, sat a little straighter, finally focussing on her openly.

"You're younger than I thought," she said, honesty for once. She hoped he knew how to appreciate it.

He _was_ young, not even twenty, probably tall when he was standing up, long-limbed but densely muscled, dressed in torn jeans and a washed out T-shirt. Tousled hair fell into his face, did nothing to soften the sharp gaze of his eyes, or hide the fading bruise along his cheekbone.

"Why?" he asked.

"You are a member of the Dead Men?"

" _Walking,"_ he said, a little sharply. "Dead Men _Walking._ Important distinction, but I'm not a member anymore. No future in gang violence."

She smiled faintly, studying him again. "True, that. I have a job I need help with."

"Why?"

"I need someone native to the Wards…"

"No," he interrupted, raised his voice just slightly. "Why _me._ You don't know me."

She pretended to play with the sunglasses in her hands, watched them rather than him before she spoke again. "A friend of a friend pointed me in your direction. You sounded… promising. I can hire muscle at every corner, but this job needs a bit more than that."

"Sounds illegal," he observed, unimpressed.

"Do you mind?"

"Are you wearing a wire?" Not missing a beat, not quite serious, but unwilling to dismiss the possibility.

"No, not today," she answered with another smile.

"What did Marston say?"

The remark did take her by surprise and she allowed herself to let it show, if only for a moment. She wasn't here to find a dumb thug, if she treated him like one, he'd just refuse and go his own way.

"How do you know?"

"I haven't been to Marston's gym in years," he said. "You called me Danny Boy, the timeframe fits. What'd he say?"

She leaned her head back, watched him again, gauging him and what he might be thinking, what he might want to hear, what would sway him to her cause. He hadn't asked what it was, it hadn't escaped her.

"Fierce, that's what he said," she offered. "Smart. Stubborn."

"Not interested," he added dryly. And doing a good job of not showing how her list of attributes must stroke his ego. His features didn't soften, didn't abandon the laid-back indifference he was affecting.

"You haven't heard my offer."

"It sounds too fishy already. More trouble than it's worth, anyway."

She let her gaze wander away from him, around the room and through the window, the shabby cars on the parking lot there, the drug dealers and gang-bangers and other lost youth hanging around between them. "So you're content working in that Internet café? Cold booting computers for people too dumb to do it themselves? That's it? That's all it's ever going to be, you know."

She snapped her attention back to him, just in time to catch the beginning of a sneer on his face. He checked it immediately, took a sip from his coffee to hide it. He took a deep breath, turned it into a sigh. "Hard, honest work, says my mother."

"Barely enough to get by, on a good day," she stated. "Enough to drive a man up the walls. It's like cabin fever, when the cabin is everywhere."

She tapped her sunglasses on the table as she continued, "I'll tell you what I see, just now, just talking with you for no more than a few minutes. I think Marston was right, _half-_ right at least. You're the man I need, I think. And I've got the offer _you_ need."

"Alright," he said, finally. "What offer?"

She gave him another smile, brighter this time. More teeth. She looked through the window again. "What do you see out there?"

"Is this where I'm supposed to come to the conclusion of 'opportunity'?" He drawled the last word as if it left a bad taste on his tongue.

"That's my line. Cheesy I confess, but true," she nodded slowly, watched him from the corner of her eyes. "Chicago is a big city, and yes, there are opportunities, but that's not what I mean. It's a city full of _problems."_

It earned her a little chuckle, "No shit."

She focused on him again and into that sudden apparition of levity, she asked, "Have you ever killed someone?"

For just a moment, the mask fell and he was _young,_ raw and angry and trapped. She had suspected as much, investigating him. She would not just walk up to any random man pointed out to her, plot murder with him in a public place. She was not that stupid. This _could_ come and bite her, later, if he failed or broke. You could never trust young men to remember they were supposed to be more than bluster and bravado, especially if they had learned these things on the street.

Aiden stared at her, searched her face as if looking for a hook he could use to tear her open. _Psychological Models of Emotion,_ was the title of the book he had been reading. The muscles along his jaw twitched and tightened before he answered.

"Not on purpose," he said.

She let him flounder in the wake of what might be guilt, what might be uncertainty, _what might be_ his own struggles with his nature and the future he wanted to avoid. It was the other half, the things Marston had not said, because he was not equipped to identify them. She knew, though, had known the moment Marston had described him.

Irritated, Aiden crossed his arms over his chest, stared at her hard. "Still waiting for that offer."

"It's a necessary preamble," she said, matching his tone and his impatience. "Someone has to die. And I want you to help me. Three thousand if you do."

More money than he had likely ever seen in one place, but they both knew it and so the knowledge carried less weight than it should. He certainly didn't seem impressed. He smiled a little, even, a frosty expression in the summer heat.

"You're not wearing a wire," he concluded.

"You're still hung up on that," she said, bemusedly. "Are you that important?"

He shrugged. "No idea, but I'm not stupid."

"No, I don't think you are," she agreed, a concession. He wasn't going to be sweet talked into something he had already figured out would change his life. He only had to realise it would change for the _better_.

"You're familiar with the Wards," she said, pulling them both back from an edge. Business-like in her tone and manner, confident in ways he still needed to learn. "You have your gang connection, but like you've said, you aren't on the inside anymore. You know how to fight, Marston said it and I can tell. And, yes, you're capable to have more than one complicated thought in your head at any one time. Those are valuable assets. You should trade on what you have. Anyway, there is a man hiding with the Viceroys. He's stolen information from the Club and he's threatened selling it to the police…"

"Bullshit," he interrupted. "You know what Viceroys do to snitches? They bleed them out."

"Not when they stand to gain. The snitch sells on the Club, cops take out a few high-ranking Club members, Viceroys move in. At least, that's the plan. And that, right there, is the problemI'm being paid to fix."

"Messy," he said, still not impressed, still not tempted by the money, or at least controlled enough not to show it if he was. "Do it without me."

He slipped from the booth, leaned forward to pick up his pile of books.

"That's it?" she asked.

He shrugged, pulled a backpack from under the table, took a leather jacket out and stuffed the books in. "Yes, that's it. I got to pick up groceries before I head to work. I'm already running late."

But he lingered, just a moment. Nothing on his face that would give him away, but the time he stayed longer than he needed to. Like he was asking her to convince him, really, as if he just wasn't ready to face up to what she suspected of him.

He was right, though, she didn't really know him and she had just outlined a very dangerous plan to him. "Information is power," she said. "Who will you sell it to?"

He shook his head, slowly. Smiled a little as he did. "I'm not getting into it. I ditched the Dead Men because of shit like this. I'm not…" and he stopped as if caught, green eyes narrowing suddenly.

She flexed her shoulders, moved out of the booth to stand facing him, too close, she had to look up a little to do it. "How melodramatic," she said. "You're not a killer, is that it? That what you were going to say? It's such a stupid line. It changes nothing about who you are. Beat up some idiot, sell some drugs, kill some stupid fuck, or _work yourself into the ground for the next fifty years_. You're the same man, start to finish. You can use what you have, or piss it all away."

He was looking down at her, still frowning, still not quite as certain of it all as he pretended to be. It wasn't money, she thought, it was about the other things she'd said.

Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head again, stepped aside and began pushing through the slightly thinned crowds. Glancing back over his shoulder, he said, "No."

Left her standing there as he made his way outside, contemplating her options. She _had_ ran a risk, talking to him so openly and it might yet blow up right in her face, but if she didn't understand people the way she did, she would be dead already, many times over. He would sit on this and if all the Wards went up in flames in a gang war over it.

She turned around and stalked him, found him outside by his motorcycle, helmet in hand. He rolled his eyes a little when he spotted her.

"Look," he said. "Forget it. I'm out. _Out,_ okay? The Dead Men were all over me for weeks after I quit. I had to break a few noses to make them stop. You want a taste? Just keep following me."

She smirked a little. "I don't think you'd get a punch in. You'd hesitate. You think too much about the wrong things."

He studied her, pensively. Then put his head to the side a little. "I'd toss the helmet at your face. Maybe I'd get lucky, but I guess you'd catch it. You still got the sunglasses in your hand, messes with your priorities. Gives me a second, you look like you could fight blind, so a second is all I'll have. You wear the wrong shoes, that's your weak spot. Gets you to your knees in that second, my elbow into your neck before you can drop the helmet and your head into the concrete _or_ the helmet, depending how you fall over. I want twenty percent."

She had listened to his outline with growing amusement, not nearly small-minded enough to be surprised or offended at his lack of gentlemanly sensibilities. At the same time, she realised he'd played her. He might as well have thrown that punch, because she felt it connect perfectly with his closing line. The little punk had never intended to reject her offer, she thought she had been talking him into it, while they'd really been _negotiating_.

"Twenty percent?" she repeated.

"This is big," he stated. "It's Club bigwigs on the line and it sounds like it could escalate pretty damn quickly, if they're willing to pay an outside agent. I could end up in the middle of a gang war with all sides gunning for me. Three grand isn't a serious offer. Give me twenty of what you get and I'll help you."

She chuckled, "I guess you're lucky I'm not doing this as a favour, then."

"I don't know. You owing me a favour. Could be useful."

She arched her brows, unfolded her sunglasses and put them on. "Careful there," she warned with strained mirth. "If you think you understand the game, you really haven't understood the game. I'll call you tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised on 31/May/2015, 24/Feb/2016, 21/Nov/2016 and 10/May/2017**


	2. Chapter 2

Aiden played his part. He played _all_ his parts and more. He found her mark, Liam Corvis, holed up and under guard in a Viceroy safe-house, deep inside their territory. He found the man and he carefully constructed them a way inside that stronghold. It turned out, Corvis would be impossible to extract without an invading army, which was more attention than her employers wanted to attract.

Instead, Aiden tapped into their phone, using a curious, homemade contraption; a half-gutted phone on one end was the only component she could identify.

She had called herself 'Sonya' on the phone, talking to his girlfriend and the way he said the name made it quite clear he didn't trust a syllable of it. She watched him now, where he sat on the floor, cross-legged beside the pried-open distributer box in the basement of an abandoned house. She watched him while they waited for a call and he pretended not to notice, or at least not to care that she was doing it.

Heat lingered in the basement, worse than out on the street where evening had brought wind and a hint of thunder. Sweat-dampened lines followed the leather straps of the gun holster he wore and he would sometimes tuck and pull on it, less comfortable of its presence than he liked to show.

"Won't the phone companies be able to detect this?" she asked.

"Of course, I don't really have good equipment. Too expensive. This shit? Screws over an entire housing block," he nodded. "If they get enough complaints, they'll even send a technician. Maybe before Christmas."

She settled her shoulder into the wall and looked around the room, ugly graffiti on the walls and a soiled mattress in a corner giving off a subtle stench in the heat. She heard him shift and looked back at him, found him flexing his shoulders into the holster and resettle himself, extend his legs in front of him, crossed at the ankle.

She paid him because she'd known he could track her mark in the Wards, quicker and easier than she could herself, but she needed more from him than just that. She'd paid attention and after their first conversation in the Dogtown, she had looked even closer. Nothing she knew suggested he would know how to tap a phone. It was true, he hadn't been subtle, he lacked the tools and the necessity to be, but it made her wonder regardless. If you _gave_ him those tools…

The phone rang, pulling her from her line of thoughts. He gave her a quick, triumphant grin and jumped to his feet, picked up the phone, smoothing his features before he answered. "Good afternoon, DA Turner's office, Ripley speaking."

She arched her brows, but held her tongue, letting him play out his charade. His voice sounded different, his pronunciation suddenly wiped clean of all traces of a Wards childhood.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Turner isn't available. Can I help you? - - - Ah, I see, yes, we've arranged that a new negotiator will take over the case. She's one of our best, I'm sure we'll all benefit if this isn't being drawn out more than necessary. - - - Yes, she is en route right now and should be with you in half an hour. - - - I don't care if it's convenient. _No_ one cares if it's convenient. This is what it's going to be. It'd be best if you remembered who's on the side of the law here. - - - Make sure our negotiator is treated with respect. - - - Absolutely. Better safe than sorry. - - - You'll hear from us."

He hung up, grin crawling back in place of the mask he had affected, selling the story. Not many people would have known your expression will reflect in your voice. Not many would have bothered.

"It's still risky," she observed. "They can have other people they can call. We could be walking into a trap."

He fixed her, always that hard stare as if he was in a contest all the time, a constant challenge to the world.

"This gets you in," he pointed out, quite clearly he had expected something closer to praise than what he was getting. "Gives you the time you need. You just need to off the guy, right?"

She hesitated, gaze wandering around the room for a moment before she answered. Slowly, she said, "Not quite."

"What?"

"I need to make sure he hasn't stashed away some kind of insurance in case of his death. At the very least, he'll need it to make sure the Viceroys hold up their end of the bargain."

She could see him processing the new information. She hadn't expected him to be quite so thoughtful, she had steeled herself to deal with self-aggrandising posturing and arrogance. She had seen it coming, seen him rub his asking price into her face as if she was the amateur and not the other way around. What she had got, however, was a very young man with more potential than he seemed to realise.

It didn't escape her that he didn't comment on that new development, only turned away and began to dissemble his equipment with quick fingers. "You're here with that rental?" he asked, his back to her.

"Yes."

"Good thing we're in Dead Men territory, then."

She let the reprimand brush off. "I thought the _Walking_ part was important."

"It is," he confirmed pointedly. He was done packing and got up, turned to face her again. He had taken a suit jacket from his pack and shook it out in an effort to smooth it. He slipped it on, squared his shoulders into it, tucked on the straps of the gun holster again.

"We'll take your car."

* * *

Hard, thrumming music spilled out through the open windows into the street, loud enough to make the floors vibrate and the walls shiver. All the rooms were brightly lit and the entire neighbourhood could have seen the Viceroys as they hung around the house. A slow trickle of coming and going, cars parked up and down the street. _Everyone_ with eyes to see knew something was going down in that place, but everyone who ever got this deep into Viceroy territory knew how to keep their heads down and maybe make a little on the side, too.

The machine-gun fire lyrics stalked them through the house, Aiden pinned behind her left shoulder like a cross between a secretary and a bodyguard. The Viceroys further away from her wolf-whistled only once she was out of their immediate vicinity. She supposed it counted as respect as far as that went.

She had counted at least twenty on the way in. More than enough and no one seemed to care about Aiden's gun, her own or the contents of the briefcase she carried.

"We can talk over there," Corvis said without any prompting. An otherwise handsome, middle-aged man, he seemed weary and disheveled, obviously ill-at-ease with his hosts. He led them into an unoccupied bedroom. The sheets were crumpled and someone's clothes were strewn at the back of the room.

As they walked through the door, she passed the briefcase to Aiden and hung back, gently let the door fall closed. There was no key in the lock, but she'd expected as much. She stayed by the door, only turned around.

"Just so we're clear," Corvis began. He picked up a chair from the side of the wall, shook it out so the pair of jeans slipped from it. He swirled the chair around and thudded it to the floor. "My terms haven't changed. Have a seat, lady."

She crossed her arms over her chest, standing just clear of the door and by then Aiden was already on him. Aiden got him in a choke hold, got a good grip on him before Corvis recovered his senses. Corvis began to lean to the side, gripping Aiden's elbow. Watching, Sonya knew the move and where it would be going. Apparently, so did Aiden. He followed the move and let go before Corvis had a chance to trip him. Kicked him in the back of the knees instead and Corvis went down to one knee and Aiden pressed him the rest of the way.

"Liam!" she called and took a step forward. "Stop making this harder on yourself."

Corvis made another attempt to free himself, but it was only half-hearted. He glared at her from his downed position, then Aiden yanked him back up and sat him down on the chair he'd so sardonically just offered Sonya.

Corvis had enough sense to realise yelling for help wasn't going to do much good. By the time anyone heard him through the racket, he'd be silenced a dozen different ways. Aiden pulled his arms back roughly, pulled the zip ties from his pocket.

" _Relax_ your hands," Aiden ordered and Sonya could watch as the fight slowly trickled out of Corvis. She knew from some of Aiden's research that Corvis had been here for several weeks, as much a prisoner of the Viceroys as he was under their protection. She wasn't familiar with the details of his story, what had prompted him to sell out the Club and run all the way to the Wards. Both seemed to be stupid moves, but it was far from the first idiocy she encountered in her line of work.

Aiden got back to his feet and prowled the room behind Corvis, who wagged his head back and forth, trying to get him back into his sight.

"Shit," Corvis said. He seemed to steel himself, met her gaze and said, "What now?"

Aiden came to a halt behind him and if Corvis heard the rustle of the plastic bag, if he recognised the warning or not, there was nothing he could do, when Aiden slipped the bag over his head and down to this throat, pulled it tight. Corvis struggled, but ineffectively with his hands bound and fixed to the chair. Corvis wasn't going to go anywhere. The plastic bag expanded and retracted with his breathing, more frantic every second. Condensation filled the bag and obscured his face.

Across the room, Sonya found Aiden more interesting than Corvis. Face set in dull concentration, focussed on what he was doing, but not really paying attention beyond it. He looked up to meet her gaze to see her slight nod. Abruptly, he eased the hold and pulled the bag away. Corvis panted wildly, sinking down in his chair. He let his head fall back, putting on something very close to a smile. "You're really good at this," he drawled, still struggling for air.

Unimpressed, Aiden settled both hands heavily on Corvis' shoulder and leaned forward a little. "We're playing a classic game of good cop, bad cop," he said coolly.

Corvis laughed, still coughing in between hasty gulps of air. "Aren't you cute."

"Well, yes," Aiden agreed thoughtfully. He leaned back again, sorted out the plastic bag, making it rustle more than necessary. "I'm the good cop," Aiden said and slipped the bag back on.

Rap music beat through the closed door, swallowing the pitiful sounds Corvis managed to make. Aiden pulled the bag away and watched as Corvis struggled for breath, but never gave him more than two hastily drawn gulps.

"Don't you…" Corvis gasped in a reprieve. "Don't you want to ask anything? Or are you just getting off on this?"

Aiden was about to pull the bag down again, but Sonya stopped him with a gesture. She fixed on Corvis.

"Oh Liam, we all know why we're here," she said with mock-gentleness. "And we all _know_ how it's going to end. Let me say it again, don't make this harder than it has to be."

Corvis' face was bright red, eyes bloodshot and his entire body had been drenched in sweat in only a few minutes. He was still trying to laugh it off, unsettle her, or perhaps he was just playing for time.

Back in the car, Aiden had said, "Difficult to crack."

Yes, and they didn't have a lot of time to do it. Too soon one of the Viceroys would barge in, just to ask something or perhaps to leer at her some more. There was nothing they could do if Corvis hadn't talked by then and wasn't dead. They'd have to fight their way out of the house and through the neighbourhood and she'd prefer much better odds.

"You'll kill me," Corvis said. "Or your boy-toy will. I don't know why I should give you anything."

"Because we have at least an hour before any of your _friends_ will wonder what's going on," she said reasonably. "An hour can be a very long time."

Without warning, the music cut out and a shockwave of silence washed over them, froze them in place for barely a second. Corvis was the first to recover, as if in slow-motion Sonya saw him draw a deep breath to use the tiny opening and shout for help. The very same instant, Aiden snapped forward, wrapped a hand around Corvis' throat from behind and the other down over his mouth, dragging the man back against him for more leverage.

The yell dissipated in a muffled screech, probably not loud enough to be heard in the next room. This time, Corvis didn't stop struggling, tore his body sideways and forward, made the whole chair bounce, trying to free his mouth while there was even a hint of an opening.

Sonya took a step back, placed her hand on the doorknob. If someone tried coming in, she'd pretend she'd been about to leave and slip out, hopefully without anyone getting a good look inside and at Corvis. She'd block anyone, for better or for worse.

Outside, Viceroys yelled at each other, obviously annoyed at the lack of music. It wasn't clear what had happened, Sonya guessed a dispute over the choice of music, or perhaps some idiot had just tripped over the cord.

She waited, one hand on the doorknob and the other on the gun at her hip as the minutes trickled away agonisingly slowly.

The music started up again, drowning out any argument the Viceroys might still be having. She dared to relax a little, looked back at Aiden and Corvis just in time to see Aiden snatch his hand back and yelp. Corvis must have bitten him.

Aiden took a step to the side and punched him in the face, hard enough to make Corvis' head snap to the side. It'd leave a bruise, make a point, but it also bought Aiden a precious second in which to catch and hold her gaze. He wanted to say something, she could tell, but they wouldn't get the chance to talk strategy, not in front of Corvis.

"God, you amateurs," Corvis said and chuckled as he pulled himself straight again with some effort.

"Shut up!" Aiden snapped irritably. Without any further preamble, he pulled his gun and came around to face Corvis, waved it in his face while looking over his shoulder at Sonya. "I say we just shoot him!" Aiden said. "Be done with it. Half the job is better than nothing, isn't it?"

"Are you stupid?" Sonya asked back, sticking to some imagined script she had never seen. Her little punk was improvising, picking up the pieces as they'd been thrown at him. All she had to do was play her part.

She made a dismissive gesture, scowled. "Put that thing away until I tell you to use it."

He waved the gun some more, than gave an angry snarl and lowered it, hovered in the open space between Corvis and Sonya in a pretence of indecision.

"Just can't get the help these days, right?" Corvis remarked, still red-faced but inappropriately entertained. Aiden snapped around and punched him again in exactly the same spot as before. Corvis' amusement faltered under the new pain. Aiden raised the gun back up, put the muzzle under Corvis' chin and pushed up, forced him to face him.

"Doesn't matter," Aiden snarled. "You're going down."

Corvis found a dirty grin and put it on, but a hard jab of the gun made him keep his silence.

"You are _not_ shooting him," Sonya stepped in. "Now do what I tell you."

Aiden took his time, bared his teeth in Corvis' face before he retreated in a sense of tense, jerky movements, gun lowered again as he turned to face her. With his back to Corvis, he was much more composed, but spoke through clenched teeth anyway. "He's not going to snap, what do you want me to do?"

"I like the part where I'm not shot," Corvis piped in. "And don't punch me again, thank you. I've got a solution for you."

Sonya came forward a few steps until she was close enough to tower over him as she stared him down. Aiden began to pace through the room, agitation obviously riding him hard.

"Let me hear it," Sonya said. "Better not be wasting more time."

Corvis chewed on his lower lip for a moment, glanced from her to Aiden and back. "The thing is, I don't have anything with me. The Viceroys would just use it and I'd have nothing. It's in a safety deposit box. Got someone I know. Owes me a big favour. Club don't know about him, Viceroys can't get to him. Without the evidence I'm just some guy who tells a few stories."

Aiden had circled around, was back behind Corvis and was giving the plastic bag a kick. It chittered across the floor.

"You give up the evidence and I don't kill you," Sonya said. "Is that your idea?"

Corvis shrugged. "I'm not dangerous to anyone anymore. I can lead the Viceroys on for a while. Cops will take me anyway, I can still give them _something,_ but the Club's going to live it down." He hesitated, twisted his head a little, trying to get a look at Aiden.

"Minor drawbacks for everyone," Corvis concluded. "But everyone can live with it."

He pushed his chin forward. The bruise along his cheekbone was beginning to show. "Unless you want your boy to beat up on me a little more and then, you'll still not have what you want."

"You'd be dead," Sonya said. "It gains you nothing when I lose."

Corvis sighed. "Look at it this way, I'm not going to enjoy dying, this way especially, but that's all you'll have."

Sonya said nothing, considered and not all of it was acting. Time was ticking away and every second that passed made their position more precarious. "How?" she demanded. "How will you do it?"

"Well you'll untie me and I'll call my…"

"No," she interrupted with thin impatience. "You give me everything. Your contact at the bank and how to access your safety deposit box. I can call one of my people right now and make sure. _Then_ we'll leave."

"Then you'll shoot me," Corvis said.

"I give you my word?" she offered with a vague smile. There was no reason to pretend otherwise, he wasn't going to buy it, not from her. Aiden picked up the thread as if they'd rehearsed it.

"Come on," he said to Sonya. "Man's an asshole, but he's down and out. If he can't give anything to the cops, he won't make witness protection. The Club can get to him in jail. We don't have to kill him in the middle of Viceroy territory."

She eyed him across Corvis' shoulder. "You're worried about that."

" _Yes,"_ he hissed. "Yes, i'm worried. It's the _Black Viceroys._ They've got some weight, alright? Messing with them is bad for your health."

She thought about it, narrowed eyes and her gaze moving from Aiden to Corvis, contemplating her chances. She pressed her lips into a thin line, then, finally nodded, slowly and almost imperceptibly.

"He lives," she told Aiden, than turned to look at Corvis. "But he gives up his information right now."

_Come on, bite,_ she thought and didn't let it show. The calculations ran visibly across Corvis' expression, but changing too quickly to be clearly labelled. He'd been rattled, of course, by their sudden appearance, by the asphyxiation, by the unexpected appearance of an opening. No doubt, Corvis had been around, he knew things well enough to know he couldn't quite trust them. Aiden's youth was selling his lie, the hints of breaking at the seams, a man out of his depth and too inexperienced to hide it. But it didn't depend on whether Corvis believed Aiden, it depended on whether he believed he would get to _live_ if he gave them what they wanted.

Aiden was still pacing, seemingly growing more nervous by the second. In fact, Sonya thought he was beginning to overdo it. He had allied himself with Corvis, if Corvis thought he couldn't rely on him he'd just close up again.

"Sit _down,"_ she ordered sharply.

Aiden stopped, pivoted on one heel. Marching past, he stopped by Corvis' side and leaned down. "Fucking take the deal, you dumbfuck," he hissed into his ear.

He picked his seat on the edge of the bed, ready to spring back to his feet instantly. Sonya turned her attention back to Corvis, studied him in the comparative silence. Corvis had a difficult decision to make and the time it took alone would have made it clear that he didn't like any of his option. Which was, really, the point. There were countless different ways to put the thumbscrews on someone.

Corvis took a deep breath, slipped down a little in his seat. He glanced to the side, to Aiden, in an effort to assess him. Aiden had been flip-flopping throughout their little talk, gone from cooly controlled to aggressive to uncertainly desperate. Not the man you'd want to rely on for your survival…

"You're safe, asshole," Aiden said, feeling the scrutiny. "She's not going to kill you if you give her what she wants. I swear."

… but if he was all you got, you'd take it, wouldn't you?

"Or you keep stalling," Sonya added. "Your choice."

Corvis let his eyes fall closed. When he opened them again, he looked back at Sonya. "Alright, alright," voice dropped to a resigned whisper.

It took more prodding than that to get him to spill everything and a few more well-phrased threats to make sure he wasn't trying to lead them on. He told them the name of his contact, what to say and what _not_ to say, how to get to the safety deposit box in the bank. And at the end of it, it was still a risk, if only a calculated one.

The Viceroys had started wearing Corvis down long before Sonya had showed up. This, all of it, hadn't been his plan. Corvis had reduced himself to a pawn, there were only so many moves left to him.

Finally, Sonya nodded, "Okay, thank you. I'll make a call, make sure this is legit."

She slipped out the door without leaving much of a gap, found the nearest Viceroy and got him to show her to a phone.

* * *

"So what's your story, kiddo?" Corvis asked when Sonya left. He could just about make him out behind him, perched on the edge of the unmade bed.

"I don't have a story."

Corvis chuckled. "Come on, look at me, nothing to lose, nothing to give," he said, shaking his head. "You shouldn't be here. Look around you, all this hardcore gangster shit? You aren't built for it. I should know, it took me twenty fucking years to figure out _I_ wasn't built for it. I wish someone would have told me. Of course, back then, I was too stupid to listen."

Aiden didn't answer and if Corvis felt his gaze on him, it didn't make him much more uncomfortable than he already was. He flexed his shoulders carefully, put his head from one side to the other. He laughed a little, just as humourlessly as the first time.

"You'll want to get out of this while you can," he continued. "You won't listen, I can tell. Money seems good, doesn't it? Not much else to do for a kid of the 'hoods, right? Thing is, you almost had it, you know? You scared me in the beginning, seriously. Wouldn't have _worked,_ of course. You should see my boss' right hand guy. You haven't been threatened until that guy does it, a class all his own, let me tell you."

"Why don't you shut up?" Aiden cut in, low-voiced and testily.

"You wanted me to talk, remember?"

"Yeah," Aiden agreed and something very close to a smile slipped into his voice. "You _did._ You can stop now. I don't need your lecture."

"I'm just trying to help, kiddo," Corvis pointed out, though a frown had replaced the world-weary humour of before. "You keep doing this, maybe you'll have a few good years and one morning, you'll wake up and realise you can't go back and the hounds are about to get you. If it's not the cops, its the gangs, or the mob, or some random fixer earning her own living. I guess it sounds like fun, early on, and then, you know happens then?"

Dryly, Aiden said, "The suspense is killing me."

"Ha ha," Corvis made. "It's not really funny, because eventually you just start _losing._ Someone gets the jump on you, it always happens. Someone always gets hurt. If you're lucky, _you_ are the one who gets hurt. Or it's your woman, your child, your best friend or just the chick selling you coffee down the road. And that's going to stack up, you know. You won't stop losing, you can't protect everyone and you do this shit long enough, you'll never run out of enemies who want to hurt you any way they can."

Shifting, whisper of blankets and the faint groan of the bed. Aiden got up, stood for a moment, perhaps in indecision, before he walked around the bound man to face him.

"Is that how it was for you?" he asked. "Is that why you decided to rat on your boss?"

Corvis snorted. "Don't give me that loyalty bullshit. There's never been honour among thieves. That's for Hollywood. The real world is just dog eat dog. Loyalty is a question of payment, entirely negotiable. Or fear and intimidation. Usually in some combination of all three..."

He put his head back, stared up at Aiden again, wry smile back on his face. He was going to say something else, something _more,_ but he didn't get the chance.

Sonya hurried back into the room, snapped the door closed behind her and went to the briefcase, still open on the bed since Aiden had taken out the zip ties.

"We need to leave," she said. She drew her gun and began screwing the suppressor on.

"What happened?" Aiden asked.

She looked up. "Real cops are here."

She stepped away from the bed and held the gun to Corvis' face. "Good thing his info checked out."

"Oh shit," Corvis said, laughed and looked at Aiden. "You _lied._ Should've known. And I really was trying to help you, you know."

Aiden's expression gave nothing away, it didn't change, but he stepped forward and put his hand on Sonya's gun.

"I gave my word," he said earnestly and Corvis just laughed again, although it came close to hysterics, especially in light of Sonya's moritfied face. Aiden locked his gaze with hers, keeping his grip on the gun and for some reason, she actually let him take it from her hand. It caused a little spark of hope to sneak up on Corvis, but it faltered before it could fully form.

Rather than lower the gun, Aiden held it now himself, turned to face Corvis. His hand was steady, but something else was in his eyes, close to fear, or possibly even awe, but Corvis was the only one privy to it.

Sonya gave him some space but said, "One to the head, two to the heart. And don't draw it out, we've got to go."

Aiden hesitated, brows drawn together into an almost thoughtful expression and the gun still steady in his hand. Corvis calmed, hysterics bleeding away and met his gaze, across the muzzle of the gun, held it.

"One day, you'll be in my place," Corvis said. "You'll regret this moment then."

Aiden pulled the trigger and the sound it made through the silencer was unsatisfying and got lost in the din still pressing through the walls. Corvis slumped in the chair, his body twitched in dying before it went limp.

"Okay, let's go," Sonya said.

She only spared it a quick look, tracking the bullet-holes on Corvis' body, assessing them. Without taking his gaze off Corvis, Aiden handed her gun back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Reference:** The name 'Ripley' comes from Tom Ripley.
> 
> I'm having a _phase_. I think everything I write is crap. So is everything I've ever written. And I want to apologise profusely for inflicting it on the public, even if barely anyone is reading it and I've got to assume those actually know what they are doing...
> 
> Also, after some careful consideration I've come to the conclusion that I inhabit a very odd parallel universe in which Aiden Pearce has a very complicated, fascinating and charismatic personality (as opposed to the boring non-entity he seems to be for everyone else.) I seem to be all alone in that universe. You are welcome to visit, however.
> 
> I had to split this part because it got really long. Dogtown now has four parts.
> 
> I fell in love with Corvis. Can that please not happen again?
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Revised on 31/May/2015, 24/Feb/2016, 21/Nov/2016 and 10/May/2017 ******


	3. Chapter 3

The Viceroys were no idiots, however, and the moment was already lost. They got as far as the ground floor, right to the front door in fact, where a tight ball of Viceroys had already congealed around three men in suits, who seemed both determined and running out of patience.

When the Viceroys spotted them, several of them left their place and planted themselves squarely in Sonya's and Aiden's path.

"Now who the fuck are you?" the Viceroy in her face demanded and stepped closer, right into her personal space, his entire posture a challenge and a threat. There were too many of them surrounding them, it was impossible to be sure which of them the Viceroys considered the greater danger. But for a moment, there was a _chance,_ the opportunity to seize the initiative, sprout a clever lie, confound and confuse and most importantly _leave._

And then, someone yelled through the still beating music, "Hey Sand! Corvis's dead!"

The mood tipped instantly and Aiden tensed at her side, shifted his balance just slightly and knocked out the Viceroy in front of him with a head-butt. The man crumpled and Aiden dodged to his right before the other Viceroys could get a good hold on him. It wasn't his first fight, it wasn't even his first fight against such numbers. He was fast and brutal, he knew they didn't even have to shoot him, they just had to pile up on him long enough. There was no time for strategy, for a plan, for anything other than sheer, vicious reflex.

He punched and kicked, pivoted on his heels and slammed the flat of his hand into a face, his elbow into a throat. He kicked the legs away from under a Viceroy, held onto his wrist as the man went down, let the joint twist with the force of the fall and the man screamed in sudden, spiking pain. Aiden let go at the last moment, making the point stick. He threw himself around to avoid a choke hold, snapped his head back and into the chin of the guy who had attempted it. He didn't have more time than that, because then there were too many, gripped his arms and tripped him. He took two of them down with him, but he couldn't free his arms again, couldn't get his feet back under him.

There was no way he could save it after that.

Sonya wasted no time watching Aiden take on an entire Viceroy Crew. He had bought her a moment, drawing all the attention and though some Viceroys hung back around her, one even reached for her to secure her, but it was the more manageable number. She stepped back, freed her arm easily and punched her fist into his throat. She ducked away under another Viceroy's lunge, kicked out with one leg and caught him on the thigh.

She slipped past a third, and put her elbow into his back as she passed and there they were: the three cops. They had spread out a bit when the fighting had begun, hands going to their guns, but none of them had drawn yet. For them, more than anything, the situation would be a hopeless mess and every action they took could be a mistake. Just negotiating with the Black Viceroys _at all_ would be a publicity disaster if it got out.

Sonya went for the closest one, slapped his hand away from his gun and drew it herself. She wrapped her arm around him, got behind him and held. He attempted to get out of her hold, but she just held on and he stopped struggling when she pressed his gun to the side of his head. She hissed a warning in his ear.

His colleagues skittered to an uncertain halt in a small half-circle around her, edging in two different directions and trying to flank her. She yanked the cop with her, backward until she had some more space. She stared the cops down and shouted, "Stop!"

It worked on them, though it wouldn't last. The Viceroys who had been going for her followed the order, too, albeit with noticeably less enthusiasm.

Across the room, Aiden had somehow got out of the hold, struggled up on all fours. A Viceroy kicked him in the stomach, toppling him to his side. But he got hold of the leg, twisted the Viceroy to the ground and then rolled further, almost _almost_ regained his feet, but a second kick toppled him over again.

For a moment, she took the gun away from her hostage's head, raised it up and fired into the ceiling. A small cloud of loosened plaster and dust came down. It took a little time until the attention shifted back to her.

"Who wants a dead cop!?" she yelled on top of her lungs, riding on the bang of the gunshot.

Gradually, the dog-pile around Aiden unravelled. Vaguely, she hoped he could still walk at all, because if he couldn't, she wouldn't be able to save him.

"Alright," said one of the other cops. "Let's talk about this. No one wants this to escalate."

"Yo, who died and made you king?" a Viceroy snapped and walked up. "My house, my rules." He stared at Sonya. "And this bitch's just broke all of them."

Irritated, the cop turned to face the Viceroy. "Mr., uh, Sand, once someone takes a member of the force hostage, I don't give a flying fuck in whose house it happens. You screwed up enough for one day, let the real men handle it…"

Much as she'd like to watch them tear each other apart, Sonya cut in, " _Hey!"_ and attention snapped back to her. "It's not going to be complicated. My partner and I, we'll be walking out of here and then you can finish your pissing contest."

The Viceroys had finally stepped away from Aiden and left him on his own. He was on his back, up on his elbows, looking both battered and strangely amused. He took his sweet time, too, sorting out his limbs and flexing his neck as he finally got up. He looked around and found his gun on the floor a few feet away.

He walked over, looked at the Viceroy standing over his gun and without taking his gaze off him, bent to pick up the weapon, daring him to try anything. It was the only moment of grandstanding Aiden allowed himself, he was careful as he made his way to Sonya, well out of reach of the other Viceroys or the two cops. The latter, especially, were a problem. Whatever they did, it would be justified and they could have little interest in appearing weak this deep in gang territory.

Walking past her, Aiden kicked open the front door, held it open while Sonya manoeuvred her hostage carefully back until she stood in the open door.

"Shoot him in the leg," she told Aiden. There was a moment of hesitation, but she had neither time nor was she in the mood to ponder what it might be. Perhaps he'd hurt his head, it wouldn't be surprising. He aimed and shot and had enough sense to figure out what her point had been anyway.

The hostage yelled in pain and crumpled in front of the doorway when Sonya let him go, blocking the door for a few precious seconds while she ran outside and slammed it shut. With any luck, it would confuse the cops' priorities, cause another moment of confusion.

"This way!" Aiden shouted and she followed blindly, even if he wasn't running in the direction of the car. It was parked the other way, probably too far to reach before Viceroys and cops finally piled out of the door. She could already hear them behind, shouting.

She followed Aiden around a corner and into a backyard, there were no lights. Keeping track of him was difficult and he didn't bother making sure she could keep up. He cut an almost straight line through the neighbourhood, navigated backyards and untended gardens and trash-strewn back alleys without pausing for breath.

Lights, she learned quickly, were dangerous. Street-lamps were a rarity in the area and when there was light, it came from a car, Viceroys searching for them, she supposed. She didn't know what the police were doing. She heard a siren in the distance, once, but it never got close. Perhaps the cops had figured they'd just take Sand's crew and cut their losses.

Aiden broke through a low hedge and veered to the left, along the side of a house wall. He slowed and finally looked back at her.

"You good?" he asked.

"I should ask you the same thing," she said. "You got pretty banged up."

"I've had worse."

He looked around, scanned the surrounding like an animal, picking up scents.

"We can take the car," he said. It was parked in front of the garage and had the outline of vintage muscle car, but it was too dark to be sure. A car easy to steal, however, fast enough to get them out of the neighbourhood and tough enough to keep them going if they were caught.

She nodded, regardless of whether he could even see it or not. He stood a little oddly and his breathing didn't sound quite right, now that she could pay attention. She walked around him and the car to the driver's side. She tried the door and when it was locked, she smashed in the window with her gun.

She got in, leaned over and unlocked the passenger side. While Aiden climbed in, she got to work on hot-wiring the car. It had been a few years since she'd done it and perhaps Aiden would've been better suited, but she decided to leave him. He sunk into the seat with a low sigh and was still after that.

He only moved again to close his door when the car started, the roar unexpectedly loud in the otherwise quiet surrounding.

"Leave the lights off," Aiden said.

It was precarious going, narrow streets, parked on both side and littered with trash-cans and abandoned shopping carts here and there. Aiden gave direction at irregular intervals. The neighbourhood gradually changed, became less decrepit and the street-lamps were working in most places. And after a last turn, they were on the expressway and the glittering lights of the Mad Mile cityscape painted in front of them.

"Do you need a doctor? I know one who won't ask questions. He should be on duty in the hospital."

"I'm fine."

"Whatever you say," she sighed a little, but let it go, let the silence reign in their stolen car. He didn't need to prove anything to her, but there probably was no point in telling him. It wouldn't help.

After a while, she said, "How do you want your payment?"

He didn't reply immediately and when he did, it was at the end of a choked off laugh he hadn't been able to contain. "I don't even know how much it is."

She smirked a little at that. "Fifteen thousand," she said and glanced at him, still oddly huddled in his seat. His head was resting on the window, face lax in the passing of lights. He looked tired and young, fresh bruises and swollen skin. His lip was split, still glistening a little with fresh blood.

"Are you worth five times more than I thought?" She meant it more teasingly than it came out. It sounded too serious.

"Your call," he replied, matching her tone, but not looking at her.

"You need to learn to work in a team," she pointed out. "Three times you pulled a complete U-turn without warning. If I hadn't played into it, it could've ruined everything."

"You managed."

"Yes, I _managed,_ but that's not teamwork."

She concentrated on the road as the traffic became thicker around them. They'd need to ditch the car soon, just in case it had been reported. Couldn't trust the cops, couldn't trust the Viceroys not to have some more connections with the cops.

"I'm wondering," she started. "When you killed Corvis… did you agree to this job just for that? I asked if you had killed before and you said no. Was that the reason?"

He said nothing for a long time, then he laughed again, but there was something rough in it this time. "Fifteen. _Grand_ ," he said.

"Yes, but you didn't know that," she insisted. "When we spoke in the Dogtown, you manipulated me. You made me believe you didn't want the job, but I think you've been waiting for this kind of offer for a very long time."

He shifted in his seat, sat up straighter and squared his shoulders into the upholstery. "You're asking, _seriously_ , if I was just itching to kill somebody?"

"If it's making you uncomfortable," she said, but the knowing smile was in her voice. "I won't pry."

"Well, it's bullshit," he asserted and that, too, she decided to let go.

"Now, about the money…?"

"Can you give me, say, five grand in cash?" he asked, quite clearly making it up while he spoke. "And I'll set up a separate account for the rest."

"Have you ever done that before? Set up an account for illegally earned money?"

"Can't be that hard," he shrugged.

A grin stole itself on her face before she even noticed. "For you? Probably not, no."

She considered driving to the next ATM and withdraw the amount, cycling through several cards to circumvent the withdrawal limit. Slow, awkward. Safe. Or she could just drive to a safe-house and get the cash from there. She didn't know if he realised she was taking a roundabout route while she worked out just how far she was willing to trust him.

When she finally pulled to a stop in front of a high-rise apartment building, he didn't comment.

"Get rid of the car and come back here, I'll have the money ready."

He looked around for a moment. "Park it in the alley over there. I'm coming with you."

"You think I'm going to start cheating you this late in the game?"

"I _think_ if you really wanted to, I'd have no way to find you," he said, then put his head to the side a little. "I'll get rid of the car after that. I know just the place."

She liked this safe-house, a nice apartment in a normal, middle-class neighbourhood. It wasn't what people thought of when they heard the term. She had carefully constructed a second life for it, made sure her neighbours knew she was a businesswoman, often out of town, but otherwise friendly and moreover _harmless._

She acquiesced.

She parked in the alley and took him home. Or as near to 'home' as was strictly necessary.

In her well-lit living room, she got her first good look at her temporary partner and briefly considered bringing up her guy at the hospital again. Although half of his face was hidden again behind messy strands of hair, he looked oddly pale under the bruises. Some sprinkles of blood soiled the front of his shirt, from Corvis or from the fight afterward. The suit jacket had torn at some point.

"Fix yourself a drink, if you like," she told him. "I'll get your money."

She left him in the living room, heard nothing for a moment and then the low chittering of glass.

When she came back, he had a glass in his hand, generously filled with something clear, although in all probability not water. He had taken off the jacket and leaned on the back of the couch. He seemed to be momentarily unaware of her return, as he put his head back and closed his eyes as he drank.

"You realise you're still trusting me with the rest of your payment," she pointed out and he glanced over his shoulder at her.

"You don't really live here," he said. "But you like this place."

"Yes," she confirmed, walked around the couch to face him. "And I'll leave it behind without a second thought. But not for just ten thousand dollars."

She held out the bundles of banknotes. It wasn't a very neat stack. This money had passed through countless hands already and if their serial numbers were registered anywhere, everyone had long since forgotten all about it.

"Count it," she invited him, but he just took the money with his left hand and fiddled it into the pocket of the jacket by his side, barely looking at it. He took another sip. This close, she could tell it was vodka.

For a moment, she indulged herself in a little fantasy. She could reach out and brush those strands of hair from his face, they had been vexing her all the time. She could cup his face and kiss him. Kiss him hard, taste him, take him, just to see if there was anything he _wasn't_ good at.

Or she could do the more intelligent thing, more satisfying for both of them, too, in the long run.

"Look at the world," she said after a moment. "It's wide open."

He answered with a curious tilt of his head, waiting. The money, the alcohol, the fight, the _kill_ had left a hard glint in his eyes. Of course he knew what she was saying, he wasn't slow and stupid enough not to, but he didn't acknowledge it aloud.

"Let me spell it out, then. I prefer to work alone. And I can tell, you'll be better off on your own as well, but sometimes a contract has other requirements. I could kick some jobs your way." She spread out her hands, "Other times, maybe I'll need some more help. You have some useful talents."

"You think I should be a fixer."

"It's just terminology," she dismissed it with another gesture of her hand. "Call it anything you like. It pays well, if you know how to play your cards right. And it means you won't have to make so nice with the gangs and the mob. Make your own rules, like they do."

A slow frown settled on his face, made him look unexpectedly uncertain, something like lingering innocence despite everything. Like this might be, after all, too large for him to comprehend. She wouldn't hold his hand through it. She shrugged slightly and stepped away, walked over to the table and the notepad there.

"You can call me," she said, writing. "Once you've set up your account and I'll transfer the rest of the money."

She tore the page free and walked back to him. "As for the rest…"

"What sorts of jobs?" he asked. His gaze rested on the paper in her hand as if he considered refusing it despite everything it had taken to get this far.

"Whatever is required," she said and added with a wan smile, "Admittedly, today was… _finicky._ Most jobs aren't as high profile, nor as well paid. Of course, most of them aren't legal. That's the point, usually. I don't really think you care."

When he still didn't move, she waved the note and said, "Well?"

He downed the vodka, then held out the glass to her. She took the glass and he finally snatched the note from her hand. He glanced over it, then stuffed it into his pocket. He considered her for another moment, looking for something else to say perhaps and coming up blank. What _did_ you say at the end of your very first fixer contract? An hour after your first kill? And in the light of his life — the parts she knew and those she didn't — was it a monumental step, something life-changing? Or was it just the natural progression of events? He _had,_ after all, put himself in exactly the place he found himself in, from the first moment he had brushed her off in the Dogtown.

The moment passed, leaving no visible traces. She stepped back, gave him space, and he picked up his torn jacket, slung it carelessly over his shoulder. He forced himself into a straight posture, no broken or cracked rips, then, as she had originally guessed. Just a little worse for wear, but nothing sheer stubbornness wouldn't overcome.

"Are you good with the car?" she asked, stopped him briefly on his tracks.

He didn't turn back, "I'm good with the car."

* * *

Leslie wasn't the type of girl who'd needle him pointlessly for details. It didn't much matter to her that he'd been in the Dead Men, nor that he'd left them behind. She didn't care he helped his boss move stolen goods rather than just babysit people at the computers. She knew he'd been hired by a fixer and if she wanted to know more than that, she didn't ask.

She was, however, somewhat bothered by his beaten up state and refused for two entire days to be talked out of a visit to the doctor. After that, she kind of seemed to give up, but he got a very concerned call from Nicky instead, who _really_ shouldn't have known anything out of the ordinary had happened. Because all the things Leslie knew, Nicky didn't and didn't need to and _shouldn't._ She'd look at him differently. Everything would change and he wasn't sure if he could face that.

He'd rebuffed Nicky with some difficulty, talked himself out of a family dinner with Mom and assumed Nicky'd be sulking for a week or so. More than enough to finally get his shit into order. If he wanted to pursue this career — and it was a big _if_ — he needed something better than just a separate account. He needed an entire separate _identity_ to cover his tracks, at least if he didn't want the government to start asking difficult questions of where all the money was coming from. He would leave traces in the world, no one could evade that forever and just a quick look at modern computing gave him a good idea where it was going to go. Because of this, all he could do was make sure none of these traces led back to him.

It was, all in all, a bit of a headache.

Leslie left the shower and carried a cloud of sweet-scented steam into the living room with her. He glanced up at her and watched as she walked past and dove into the kitchen cabinet. One of these days he was going to pay her boss a visit and talk about Leslie's work hours, probably with the help of a baseball bat. Consistently understaffed, Leslie was working double shifts as chamber maid in a Parker Square hotel and some weeks, he barely got to _see_ her. One more good reason to find some better future career than… well… cold booting computers for people too stupid to do it themselves. Or carry around boxes of fenced goods after the Internet café closed.

Leslie emerged from the kitchen with a piece of chocolate in her hand and another between her teeth. Sauntering back to the table, she pointed at it and wagged her eyebrows suggestively. When he grinned back, she walked around the table, leaned over him and they shared a kiss around the chocolate.

Still grinning, she settled one hand on his knee, then slid it up his thigh. "You know, I still have half an hour."

The muscle in his leg twitched under her fingertips. He curled an arm around her waist, but said, "I'm waiting for a call. Tighe is setting me up with a forger."

"So?" she hummed, kissed the edge of his mouth, then trailed small, chocolaty kisses along his jaw until she could bite his earlobe.

"I'm trying to make a good first impression," he said. It didn't exactly stop him from leaning into her and pulling her closer.

"And?"

"I don't want to sound like a sex line?"

She chuckled, _purred,_ dragged her teeth back along his jaw, "How's that a bad thing? You sound kinda hot."

Sort of aware he was sending mixed signals, Aiden caught her lips and kissed her back, harder than before, no longer softened by the sensual-sweet hints of chocolate.

But he really needed to fix this problem, Tighe had been vague about the forger and Aiden had never been deep enough into this side of the criminal world to have many connections, not enough to get the right people to trust him. He was fairly sure he only had one shot at this.

Leslie laughed around the kiss, slung her arms around his neck and straddled his lap. "I'll throw in a blow-job, too," she smirked.

Someone rang the doorbell.

He leaned his head into her shoulder, sighed, "Later?"

Leslie huffed, but began to disentangled herself from him when the doorbell rang again. As she walked to the door, she looked back over her shoulder and said, "You're the only guy I know who'd say 'no' to a blow-job."

"It's not 'no' _forever,"_ he called after her, but returned to staring at the phone in front of him. If he screwed this one up, no doubt Sonya could set him up, but he wasn't particularly eager to give her more influence over his life. He depended too much on her already and either she didn't realise it, or she had decided not to use it against him. Yet. He had no illusions what he was to her. She'd burn him in a second if she stood to gain. It was just a question of expediency.

In the hallway, Leslie shrieked in surprise, something crashed and before it had started to filter through to Aiden, Viceroys piled into his living room. One hauled a cursing Leslie along by her ponytail and a bruising grip on her arm. She struggled ineffectively against him, spitting all kinds of dirty words. He recognised the Viceroy holding her from a few days ago and the one right beside him, Sand.

Aiden was on his feet and threw himself around. In the second he had, he recounted all the locations of all possible weapons. The gun, the baseball bat, a goddamn _kitchen knife._ Sonya had been both right _and_ wrong when she assumed he hadn't killed before. He could kill, he knew it and he'd take every opportunity to carve these Viceroys up if they gave him half a chance… and then, what? He couldn't kill all of them. Right now, he wouldn't be able to take even one of them down.

He knew well enough when he was outgunned, quite literally — one shoved in his face as a warning before a blow into his stomach knocked the breath from him and doubled him over. Another punch followed, from a different direction, doing a good job of reminding him of all the barely healed bruises and sprains. A hit got him on the side of the head, once, twice and a third, until his brow split.

He stood swaying on his feet, taking the hits and the taunts that accompanied them. Fighting back would only lead to one thing, after all, and if he wanted to get out of this — if he wanted to get _Leslie_ out of this, he needed his wits about him.

After a few minutes, the Viceroys were done with him, at least for the time being, and pushed him down to the couch, one Viceroy sitting down far too close by his side. Damn intimidation tactic, like he wouldn't recognise it. Blood was running down the side of his face from his split eyebrow, soiling the couch. He got a good look at his apartment and it seemed like it wasn't _just_ him they'd been beating up on.

The Viceroy holding her dragged Leslie with him and pushed her down on a chair, backhanded her when she tried to spring right back up. The Viceroy leered at Aiden, "You have to ride your chick harder, teach her some manners!"

Leslie glared daggers at him, but both Sand and Aiden ignored her, fixing on each other instead.

"Did you think," Sand began, turning in the centre of the living room, gesturing carelessly with the gun. "Did you really think we wouldn't find your ass?"

Aiden had tried not to think of the possibility. It hadn't been terribly likely, he had rarely dealt with Viceroys directly and the Wards were full of people like him, why would anyone even bother memorising his face?

"I hit up Drago, too," Sand exclaimed. "You know? Leader of the Dead Men Walking? Like, I thought if he's still holding your leash, we'd have a problem with them, but it turns out Drago wants to beat the shit out of you, too. Turns out, mine isn't the only business you've ruined. I almost gave Drago a shot at you, but then I _remembered_ just how _fucking much your stupid faggot ass COST me_!"

Sand finished by leaning down over Aiden, staring at him from wide eyes, teeth bared in a grin barely this side of maniacal, close enough that tiny drops of spittle hit him in the face.

"What do you think, white boy? Is this going to have a happy ending?"

Aiden resisted wiping his face, blood and spit, but he did hold Sand's gaze. "There's something you'll want more than me," he said, quietly, with as much composure as he could muster.

"Your girl!" a Viceroy shouted to cheers from the others.

"Fuck you," Leslie spat, but had enough sense to stay put this time.

Sand didn't pay any attention to the momentary distraction. He took a small step back and shoved the gun into Aiden's face, muzzle to his forehead and Aiden found he couldn't quite suppress the involuntary shudder going through him. He didn't think he had ever gambled with stakes this high.

"How's that?" Sand demanded. "Because _your brains splattered all over the place_ sounds like a fucking brilliant idea to me."

It was hard not to squint with the gun right between his eyes, hard to _think_ with the deadly metal so close. His eyebrow throbbed and for some reason it bothered him more than anything else. Never get those stains out…

He forced the muscles in his jaw to relax, unhooking the bones there just so nothing broke when he said, "What about the fixer?"

His voice picked up strength as he spoke, because he noticed the Viceroys, or at least Sand, were actually _listening._ "I'm small fry," Aiden added. "Everyone knows that. Just trying to earn some cash. _She_ 's the one who fucked you over. Wouldn't it be more…" he lost the breath for moment, voice cutting out. He swallowed dryly. Continued, "… more satisfying if you scattered _her_ brains everywhere?"

Sand tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing, the gun stayed where it was and Aiden could see the finger on the trigger didn't relax. Sand was still grinning, "We thought of that, but you… well, you were Dead Men Walking, you're almost one of us. This is _personal_. Besides, that bitch's a large-scale fixer. They sure as hell know how to cover their tracks. Not like you, little white boy."

"I can find her," Aiden insisted.

The frown dug deeper into Sand's expression and the hunger was there. But Sand still hesitated. Stopping now would be too close to going back on his word and he wasn't running a crew if he was easily swayed, he wouldn't have been trusted with Corvis either. Sand needed to finish this, just to salvage his own reputation. He couldn't be seen being talked out of anything. But Aiden didn't think Sand was stupid, not this kind of stupid. He _had to_ know that Sonya was the juicier prize, getting to her would do a much better job at redeeming him.

"I can get to her," Aiden said.

It was just a question of expediency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, it cracks me up that Aiden isn't supposed to be drinking vodka without parentel consent.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Revised on 31/May/2015, 24/Feb/2016, 21/Nov/2016 and 10/May/2017**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note/Warning:** I'm so glad this is done. Multi-parts are so stressful. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> It feels like this part is a bit more explicit than previous installments, but I don't think it's too bad. However, as per usual, reader discretion advised.

It was a good, wealthy neighbourhood, elegant houses set back from the street by well-tended gardens, fenced in to prevent an easy view of the premises, with remotely operated gates for comfort. It was quiet, late at night, this wasn't a neighbourhood that needed regular police patrols, not least because some of the larger houses no doubt had their own security and they _all_ had some kind of alarm system.

It was still warm from the day, but Aiden had barely slept in two days and he felt high-strung and tense, both cold and almost feverish, as he watched the house from across the street. A discreet metal plate set into the pillar at the gate said: _Raffaela Benelli. Consultant. By appointment only._ He wasn't sure if it was a cover, or her day-job, or perhaps it was just how you said 'fixer' in polite company. She had been easier to track than he had expected, much to his relief, because the Viceroys weren't leaving him be and he wasn't at his best with some guy constantly breathing down his neck.

He'd _had_ the advantage of Sonya actually _wanting_ to get back in touch with him, he knew the location of one her safe-houses and all he needed to do was pick her up at any place and follow her home. _Home_ was this and she was theretonight.

At least the Viceroys knew how to take orders if he phrased them with small enough words. They'd parked well out of sight so as not to alert anyone in the neighbourhood, picked the darker paths to bring them to his side and close around him like a school of sharks. Sand slung an arm around his shoulders in a kind of disrespectful camaraderie. It made Aiden itch to grip his arm and twist it from its socket.

Instead, he clenched his teeth and let it happen.

He had entertained the possibility of tipping Sonya off, giving her some kind of warning, but he didn't know how it would help. Even if he somehow managed to slip out of Sand's grasp, he'd just end up as target of whoever took over. He couldn't wage a war on all of the Black Viceroys and this was simply too big — and too embarrassing — to let go for them. They' d have to take much more damage than he was able to inflict to make them drop it.

The only way he could think of was to leave. Leave for _good._ And his mother and Nicky, Leslie, his friends, they'd all be exposed to some kind of retaliation if he did that. All it took to protect them, all of them, was giving them one woman's life. She was someone with a body count, but the thought didn't sit right with him either. _Could_ he justify doing this at all? He'd played and he'd lost, should've been more careful…

"You surprised me," Sand remarked into his line of thoughts. "I really thought you were bullshitting us."

Aiden swallowed, forced his voice to sound neutral. "What happens next?"

"Next?" Sand repeated, grinning. "It's called a home invasion."

But then, if anyone should've been more careful, it was Sonya — _Raffaela_ — she should've known what and who she was dealing with.

"Sound familiar?" another Viceroy asked and laughed at his own cleverness.

Aiden ignored him. Sand said, "And unless _she'_ s willing to trade on Quinn himself, hers won't go as smoothly as yours."

Not like they could move on Quinn or the Club. Chicago's underworld was more or less cleanly divided in a mutually assured destruction sort of way. Sure, some border disputes happened and every party would seize an opportunity, but no one wanted an all-out war between Black Viceroys and Chicago South Club, Viceroys and the Club least of all.

Sand gave him a shove, not as hard as it could have been, but still enough to make a point. Aiden started walking and finally Sand let him go.

By the gate, Aiden stopped and pulled a remote from his pocket, flipped the switch and the gate opened smoothly.

"Not bad," he heard one of the Viceroy's comment from behind him. It hadn't been too hard. He'd called the company who manufactured the gates, pretended to be one of their techs and got them to tell him the frequency for their remotes. Easy. He hadn't fared as well with the company who had installed and maintained the alarm system. They didn't really have much of a web-presence and his calls had been rebuffed with professional ease. So when he led the group of Viceroys around the house and to the fuze box, he wasn't actually sure if the burglar alarm wasn't on its own grid and wouldn't shut down when he cut the power.

Aiden broke open the fuze box and one of the Viceroys held a flashlight over his shoulder. He found the wires and cut them. It wasn't very spectacular, almost the same darkness as before.

Passing the house before, there had been light from just one window and it had been faint. A desk lamp and a laptop screen, Sonya was still working it seemed. Perhaps she hadn't switched the alarm on already.

Sand and the Viceroys swarmed the house. It's large windows and ground floor doors offered barely any resistance as they pried everything open, getting inside from different directions.

Aiden hung back, trailed after them only reluctantly, but he saw Sonya get up from her desk, lit only by the laptop in front of her. She had to stand still for a moment, before her eyes adapted, but the Viceroys were making a racket in her house, more than enough to tip her off. She went for her desk drawer, tore it open and pulled out a gun, got it up and around just before the first Viceroy was on her. She managed to duck away from his first punch, but collided with another, couldn't get the gun up.

A Viceroy got hold of her bathrobe, yanked at it and ruined her balance. He kicked her legs away from under her and she fell onto her back. She slipped down, trying to get out of the bathrobe, get the gun up. She got a kick in the stomach and couldn't help curl in on herself, groaning.

A Viceroy wrestled her arm to the floor and Sand stepped down on her wrist, hard-heeled boot and the distinctive sound of cracking bone mixed with her choked yelp. Sand kicked the gun away, though she wouldn't have been able to use that hand again anyway.

Sonya seemed momentarily stunned. The Viceroys dragged her up and manhandled her to a wooden beam that held up the high-ceilinged room, pulled her arms up and together behind the beam, snapped a pair of handcuffs on her.

Aiden still stood just inside the room, he heard other Viceroys ransacking the living room behind him, their flashlights cutting through the darkness arbitrarily. Vaguely, Aiden thought they made too much noise. The neighbours were fairly distant, but it was a very quiet area and the large windows would advertise their flashlights to everyone who looked in their direction. Maybe someone would call the cops. Aiden didn't know what he thought about it, but he sure as hell wasn't going to warn them.

"Now," Sand said, facing Sonya. She had gone still, face set in a stark mask, meeting Sand's gaze without flinching, despite how pale she had become, fending off the pain from her broken wrist. "Are you surprised to see us?" Sand grinned.

Sonya said nothing.

"Hey, Sand," a Viceroy grinned. "She looks hot like that."

Sand snapped his head around, glared at the speaker. "Yes, but let's have some discipline. What _will_ she think of us, otherwise?"

It was nothing but power-play, of course, Sand's personal schtick to make sure his crew remembered he was in charge, able to instil random rules when it pleased him. They hadn't minded at all threatening Leslie with rape, though it had clearly been meant as humiliation for Aiden, not something they'd have gone through with. Aiden hadn't been doing a very good job at explaining that to Leslie, however.

Sonya just waited, let Sand talk and insult and play up her fate to his heart's content. Sand gripped Sonya's jaw, pulled it up.

"Wait," Aiden said and finally stepped forward. Sand dropped Sonya's face and looked over his shoulder. Sonya's gaze left Sand only slowly, as if it took effort to fix on anything else. She seemed to go even more still when she saw Aiden, as if something had settled. In a way, it probably had, because the Viceroys' presence in her house had gone from barely explainable to making perfect sense.

Sand gave him a warning frown. "What?"

"I'm sure she has a safe in the house," Aiden said. "Weapons. Maybe they'll help. You lost money on this, didn't you?"

Sand kept looking at Aiden, but reached up and around Sonya. Aiden't couldn't see but he didn't have to, because Sand pulled hard on Sonya's broken wrist and she winced quietly, put her head hard back into the pillar, but kept her composure.

"She won't tell," Sand explained as if he was talking to an idiot. "Fixers, you know? Tough as nails. Even if she's a hot chick."

"Can I try?" Aiden asked, he didn't quite trust his voice, but it was quiet enough and faint enough for Sand to interpret it any way he could and wanted. It was less about what Aiden was going to do, but what Sand _imagined_ he would do and whether he agreed or not. Half the time, people just manipulated themselves, looking for confirmation of their own views.

Sand pulled his brows up and shrugged. "Why not?"

He made a wide gesture with hands. "Come on guys, lets give the white boy a little privacy."

The Viceroys filed from the room, left one flashlight behind on a low table off the side of the desk.

Aiden stepped around it's cone carefully, looked at Sonya for a long moment and pulled out the chair from the desk to sit down. The light was too far down to hit Sonya's face, it strove past her, across her chest and over the raised elbow by her ear. For a moment, Aiden thought she was going to say something to him, but she didn't. He could tell she was looking at him, but he couldn't see her expression.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She shifted a little and barely that, but at least she was listening.

"I can't protect you," he continued.

"You trust your new friends?" she asked. "You really think they'll accept this deal you've made over my life? Because that's what it is, isn't it? What you did? Sold me to them to save your own skin."

"What did you think I'd do?"

"Make the right call," she said, raising her voice just a little, anger slowly seeping into her apathy. "Get on the right track. Bending over for the Viceroys won't help you. They'll just kill you later."

"Maybe not," Aiden said and something close to humour almost locked down his throat. "I think they actually like me."

She was silent again, but Aiden didn't have a good grasp on time, he didn't know how long it was or how long he even had. He heard the Viceroys outside, it sounded like they were having fun. It was a strange contrast.

"It's weird," Sonya said, more to herself than him. "I've never been this close to death before. It doesn't feel like it should."

"Will you give me the safe code?" Aiden asked.

"Why?" she asked back, voice barely a whisper anymore.

"Because I have no idea what Sand and the others are up to, but I don't think I want to watch."

She laughed, dryly and a little lost and the edge of something more. Slowly, she slid down the pillar, low chittering of the handcuffs and a brief, sharply indrawn breath from the pain. She passed through the cone of light, briefly revealing the mirth on her face.

"A mercy killing in exchange for the contents of my safe?"

It confused him that she didn't try to drive a harder bargain. She didn't scream at him, or mock, or accuse. All she gave him was this parchment humour. He had just sold her out, after everything she had done, after everything she was still offering him. Instead, she was preternaturally calm. It was an echo of Corvis, even, though Corvis had still tried to weasel out of things, but in hindsight, the way Corvis had accepted his end, perhaps he'd never truly believed it, either. It wasn't the kind of dying Aiden had ever witnessed. He'd seen guys beaten to a bloody pulp in some dirty back alley, he'd seen them weep and beg and piss themselves. He'd gotten in a punch and kick himself a few times, too. Better to be the one doing it than be on the ground.

This composure was something he didn't understand.

"It's not a bad deal," he said.

She was in her underwear under the bathrobe, smoothly muscled legs outlined by the flashlight now. He'd seen her fight only briefly — he hadn't had time to watch her when things had gone south after Corvis — but it was an easy bet to think she would've been a tough opponent even for all the Viceroys without the element of surprise. Perhaps if he had…

"9-6-2-6-8-4," she said, same toneless expression she'd had throughout their entire conversation. A tiny smile was in it, too, when she added, "It's a random number. Safer that way."

She laughed a little, "Turns out, I was looking the wrong way after all."

It took a long time for him to remember he had to act now, she had given him what he wanted, there was no reason to stick around. He got up and walked to the door. It wasn't even completely closed and he gave it a slight shove with the tip of his shoe.

He called out and when he felt Sand's attention on him, he dictated them the number and watched from the doorway as the Viceroys got up from where they sprawled around on the expensive leather furniture or raiding Sonya's liquor cabinet. Others seemed busy elsewhere in the house, painted white light revealed them, cajoling as they went.

Sand went to work on the safe. It was only faint relief to learn that Sonya had given him the right combination. She could just as easily have played him for a fool. Aiden would've done it, in her place.

He didn't stand around and watch them. He caught them pull out wads of cash, the biggest prize for them, but he also saw what appeared to be a pile of passports. There was even a _gold-bar._

Aiden walked back into the room, leaving the door. He picked up speed as he went, strength back in his limbs after he'd felt so numb for what felt like a long time. Not enough sleep, he guessed. He crouched down by Sonya's side and pulled the belt off her bathrobe and tried it in his hand. Silk, more than strong enough.

He threaded the belt around her throat, past her arms and back around the pillar. He wasn't sure if she just allowed herself be rearranged by him, or whether it was the beginning of a struggle. He wrapped the ends of the belt around his hands and hesitated. He expected her to say something. Some last words, a last revelation. Maybe an echo of what Corvis had told him. _This is how it ends, boy, pay attention, you'll get here eventually._

Sonya hit her head back, against the pillar, taking… No, _Raffaela_ hit her head back, against the pillar, taking a deep breath, steeling herself.

Aiden pulled the belt tight. It wasn't much of a mercy, choking someone to death took time, but it was the best he had to offer without a gun and he wasn't going to ask Sand to return his.

The silk cut into his hand in the same way it cut into the flesh of her throat. The struggle began, beyond her control now, yanking on her arms, kicking out with her legs uselessly. She made low, gargling noises, all that managed to slip past her closed throat. Aiden settled one leg against the pillar for leverage and pulled harder.

Raffaela's body pulled against her bounds, desperately, gasping for air she wasn't getting, gagging and pounding her head against the pillar. Her twitching hand caught the edge of his head and he snapped away in shock, letting the silk slip for a second. He retaliated, anger and frustration fuelling him, until the muscles in his arms burned from the strain, all the way into his shoulder blades and up along the tendons of his neck. It settled as a dull throbbing behind his eyes.

Gradually, Raffaela's body lost its strength, the gargling died down, became slow, almost rhythmic, her body raked by hard spasms. He didn't let up, she was just unconscious, not dead yet, but the silence of it was still eerie. What silence there was, anyway, with the Viceroys still running loose in the house.

It seemed no one had called the cops. It seemed the burglar alarm hadn't been switched on, or else wasn't on it's own grid. So many things could've gone wrong tonight, but somehow they hadn't.

" _Would_ you look at _that_?" Sand asked from the open door. "Enjoying yourself there?"

Aiden had to wet his lips before he trusted himself to speak, but it was barely a second. "Can you check her pulse?" he asked. "My arms are falling asleep."

"At your command," Sand mocked, walked over and crouched down by Raffaela's side. "She's well done."

Aiden managed to relax only by increment, more effort than it seemed to hold the tension. His fingers ached when blood suddenly returned into them. He massaged them, but barely paid attention.

"And now?" Aiden asked.

"Well," Sand wagged his head from side to side. "Looks like her part in the evening entertainment's gone all to hell, we'll settle with what we get. Found her gun stores, they're _massive._ Lot's of dead presidents, too. _Not_ as much as we would've made if you hadn't fucked with us."

Aiden said nothing, but met Sand's gaze across Raffaela's limp body. "That's not what I mean," he said roughly.

Sand pretended to be surprised, "Oh, I get it. Yeah, we're done. Got yourself out of this one, but don't be so sure there'll be another time."

He gestured with both hands. "Keep your head down, white boy. You aren't gonna be always having someone to trade."

Aiden stayed on the floor behind Raffaela, listened to the Viceroys as they raided the rest of the house. He handed over the gate remote when one of them asked for it and he was still there when the Viceroys left and finally the silence was actually real, even the one in his head.

After a time, the change in light caught and held his attention and he looked up. The screensaver had come on on Raffaela's laptop, abstract lines painting over the screen in random patterns, then erasing themselves.

Aiden pulled back to his feet, drawn to the computer before he realised what was happening. He touched the mouse and the screensaver quit, revealing what Raffaela had been working on. It seemed to be a programme for managing contacts. At first glance, he only spotted initials, maybe it was even coded, but it was still something he could use.

Behind him, Raffaela's dead eyes were watching, bloodshot and bulging from her red-and-blue face, disfigured almost beyond recognition. He didn't look at her. Not when he snapped the laptop closed and furled up its power cord, nor when he picked up the notebook from beside the desk or when he found the gun she'd tried to use earlier.

He found another safe in the bedroom, but if she used random numbers as combination, he had no chance to crack it. He couldn't have guessed it, anyway, he hadn't known her well enough for that. There was a box of jewellery in the bathroom, most of it looked genuine in the flashlight, he could pawn it for some additional cash. He didn't think he'd be getting paid what he still owed for Corvis.

He made a last round through the house, wiping down every surface he might have touched. He'd been careful and he didn't have a record, but he wasn't comfortable leaving anything to chance. Eventually, he _would_ have a record, no need for this to come back in ten years time and ruin his day.

Other than making a mess and taking what guns and cash they had found, the Viceroys hadn't done much to the house. It looked like just any other burglary gone wrong, if you squinted. It lacked all the hallmarks of a gang hit. He supposed there was a reason for it, perhaps still hoping to keep things on the down low with the Club, or perhaps Sand wanted to avoid a future meeting with some of Raffaela's friends.

One last time, he stepped in front of Raffaela and this time he looked at her, met her empty gaze and her bloodshot expression, tongue lolling out at the edge of her open mouth. After a moment's pause, he picked up the belt he'd used to strangle her and took it with him. He'd burn it later, just to be sure.

Killing Sonya had been necessary. He couldn't have won this hand, otherwise. He wasn't even sure he _had_ won, but at least he was still in one piece. It was just a question of expediency, but _this_ — all of it — it wasn't how he had pictured it.

_I'm sorry,_ he thought, but there was no point in saying it aloud. No one who mattered was there to hear it.

He wandered down the driveway, found the gate open and the street just as empty as it had been when he'd arrived with the Viceroys.

* * *

Aiden sat at his regular table in the Dogtown. He had Sonya's laptop closed by his side, its power cord leading under the table and through the café to where it was plugged in behind the counter. There was not enough traffic back here to worry about someone tripping and Mal was okay with it.

Not everything he found in Sonya's files was useful, almost all of it was in some kind of code. He could make sense of some of it, understand the broad strokes of what she had been doing and, more importantly, for whom and at what price. Something he could work with, though, and a better starting point than nothing.

In the weeks following Sonya's death his life had been trying to return to it's daily grind. His mother still bugged him about possible college scholarships, Nicky's boyfriend still hated him, his friends still had no idea what good beer was. Leslie had moved out, it was a gradual breakup and not the first they'd had in the two years since he'd known her, but he had a feeling this one was going to last. Leslie had always professed she didn't care about his criminal involvement, but he supposed the reality of it wasn't nearly as romantic as her fantasy had been. He couldn't blame her for that, really.

On the table in front of him was the newspaper he had been reading over breakfast. His coffee cup had left damp circles along the edge of it, smudging the picture of a pitiful looking Sand in handcuffs being led away by uniformed cops. Even in the grainy picture, the wider scene was clear. The cops had moved in force and taken down an entire crew of Viceroys. According to the article, they had received an anonymous tip and caught the Viceroys in the act. It was a watertight case, apparently. Sand was going down for this one.

Aiden settled back in his seat, watched the parking lot outside the window, the people there. Maybe he should have waited a little longer before pulling anything on Sand, some of his Viceroy friends could make the link from Corvis to Sonya to Aiden, but none of it would matter if Aiden was careful enough, watched his back and didn't hesitate to shoot first. He'd need resources for that, allies or at least people outside the Wards, he needed _connections._

He flipped open the laptop, went through Sonya's contacts, memorised the number he'd come across earlier.

"Hey, Mal, watch my stuff, I gotta make a call," Aiden called before he left the Dogtown.

There was a pay-phone across the parking lot, a sorry looking thing, smeared with garish paint and dog-shit, functional only if you knew where to hit it beforehand.

It rang for a long time.

_"Yes?"_

"I'm calling because of a mutual acquaintance," Aiden said. "You've hired a fixer called Raffaela Benelli. Unfortunately, she won't be able to fulfil her end of the deal."

_"What? What happened?"_

"She had an accident," Aiden said, but he supposed the meaning of 'accident' was different in his circles. "And I know you've been left hanging. I'd be willing to take over. After all, your problem won't fix itself."

What the man _needed_ wasn't difficult to provide. He was an engineer, looking to cash in on some of his work outside the company that paid his salary. All _he_ needed was someone to talk him through it, make sure he didn't lose his nerve, maybe have a car ready and set up a meeting with potential buyers. Using Sonya's network, it wouldn't be hard to do, even if Aiden couldn't convince all of them to work with him. An easy job, all things considered. A good way to flex his muscles in the field.

_"No, it won't. Damn, okay. I agreed on the price with Ms. Benelli, I've already paid half of it…"_

"No problem, you just give me the rest upon completion."

Despite himself, despite what had happened, Aiden smiled a little. He felt like he was finally getting on the right track. Inwardly, he'd been laughing at Sonya's suggestion of becoming a fixer, it had seemed ridiculous at the time, but now? Now he thought it might not be a half bad idea.

"We should meet and discuss the details. Do you know the Dogtown Café?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Referencing:** The gold-bar owes it's existence to the song Running Man by Al Stewart. It's probably vain or something, but I've managed to reference my own story (Nothing Left to Prove).
> 
> **Author's Note:** I've seen a lot (for a given amount of 'lot') mentions of how Aiden's hard to write. He isn't. Here's a tip: During the end-credits newsflash, Yolanda gives us this: "This is a very smart man looking to gain the upper hand in every situation." It's not _all_ , but it's a good yardstick when determining his actions and reactions. (even if Yolanda really shouldn't have any idea what she's talking about, she's been face to face with him for barely three minutes.)
> 
> As for Dogtown, Aiden's mental state is all over the place. That's intentional. He doesn't have it all sorted out yet, after all.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Revised on 31/May/2015, 24/Feb/2016, 21/Nov/2016 and 10/May/2017**

**Author's Note:**

> Internet cafés didn't really become widespread until 1994-1995, but it makes sense for the world of Watch Dogs to be a bit ahead of us.
> 
> The Fixer, as almost all my original characters, had her gender determined by coinflip and I rather like the way she's turned out. I didn't coinflip Leslie, because that could have been a bit of a hassle.
> 
> A random name generator produced 'Dogtown Café' and I fell in love with it.
> 
> It's possible I contradict some information on Aiden's past that's found in Dark Clouds, but I think Dogtown takes place earlier than what was in the book.


End file.
